by Zoe Carter
“Oh? Would you stay here, or go on a trip?” I asked politely. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, your home is beautiful, and I can imagine wanting to stay here. I was just wondering if there were any places you’d like to travel to...?”
Warwick sipped from his cup as he thought about my question, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind going to London, maybe. Or maybe even Dubai...”
I couldn’t focus on the conversation. I kept thinking about Sarah. Frankie. Whoever the damn hell Truth Seeker was. Lucy stepped in, keeping the conversation going, and I retreated, letting her have at it.
I’d found the lonely silence at home, as Alice retreated inside her shell, with or without the assistance of booze, as unbearable as Sarah had. That’s when I really started to get into drama at school. It worked so well in the plays, I’d just mimic the characters everywhere else. Lucy was my favourite, though. She was the kind of girl that could make people laugh, distract them enough so they couldn’t see me. I’d had no idea how to flirt with a guy, but Lucy—she was great at it. So brave, so cheeky, and sometimes so audacious that folks just had to love her for it. It was Lucy who told the mean girls where to go shove their remarks about Frankie, about Alice. It was Lucy who knew how to command attention and wield it with skill. Lucy was courageous, plucky—and daring. A little too daring, I found out.
Lucy had a “seize the day” attitude, which also translated to a “seize that top, handbag, book, necklace, etc.” action. I’d find all these items at home that I couldn’t remember buying. Couldn’t remember stealing them, either. When Lucy got caught for shoplifting at the local mall, I’d been frightened, but Lucy was just contrite enough, just flirty and innocent enough, that she got us off with only a warning. I’ll never forget that day, though, when Alice had to come pick Lucy up from the police station. The look on my mother’s face, the fury, the fear... We’d had a massive argument in the car on the way home.
“How could you do this to me?” Alice spat at me.
I huffed as I folded my arms across my chest and glared out of the passenger’s side window. I was sick and tired defending myself to Mom. I didn’t do it. Lucy did. Mom now forbade me to mention her name. Lucy got us into this situation, though, so I figured Lucy could damn well deal with it. “I didn’t do it to you,” Lucy snapped back. “I did it to the store, and like I said, it was a mistake.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done, you stupid little girl,” my mother had muttered as she’d turned a corner. I’d blinked at her words, but Lucy wouldn’t let me show the woman how much her words had hurt. “I’m on parole, Maisey. Do you know what that means? That means if I get caught associated with any illegal activity, I go back to prison to serve the rest of my time. I never want to have any reason to see the inside of a police station again, but here you are, doing something so reckless, so utterly stupid. Do you know how hard it is for me to get a job? To convince people to look past my record? Do you know how many women stare at me, how many times I hear ‘baby killer’ whispered behind my back, or spat in my face? I can barely get a job cleaning out toilets, and if I want to get something better, I have to tell prospective clients that I’m an ex-con. An ex-con, Maisey. And here I am, trying to get beyond that, trying to make people forget about what happened to Frankie...” Alice swallowed at the mention of the son she’d lost, then shook her head. “I am trying everything I know how to make people see me, see us, in a better light. How do you think it will look if my own daughter is arrested for shoplifting?” Alice pulled into our drive and yanked up the hand brake. “You have just undermined everything I’ve done, everything I’ve gone through.” The words were uttered in a low vicious rasp, so full of rage, of disappointment. Of hatred. She put her hands up as though to ward off the discussion, the whole situation, as though she was done with it.
“I can’t deal with this right now. Go to your room. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
Lucy pushed the car door open with force and stormed into the house, but I tripped on the second top stair inside the house, tears blurring my vision, my heart pounding in my chest, in my ears, sobbing for breath as Lucy slammed my bedroom door shut behind us. But even Lucy couldn’t stand up to the overwhelming guilt that ate at me, swallowing me whole.
I’d woken in the room, watching the shadows lengthen as darkness crept through the window to keep me company. I must have zoned out again. I’d been there for hours. I had never looked at it from Alice’s perspective before. She’d never talked about it. To learn, though, how my mother was affected by her stint in prison, the trials she faced now that she was out, that it wasn’t a happy release and a brand-new start for her, and that I’d let her down again. It scorched my heart so painfully until only ashes remained. I knew, with a debilitating certainty, that nothing was ever going to be the same again. Caleb was gone. Sarah was gone. I had just done something—admittedly, egged on by Lucy—that caused Alice shame and humiliation.
I realized now that I’d ruined my mother’s life. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t hide from it. Baby killer. I had heard some of the whispers. Hell, I’d faced them at school, but I’d never once really considered how those words would affect my mother. She’d woken up to learn her son had drowned while she slept within reach. She had accepted the story presented to her, that it was her fault. She had accepted the blame, the responsibility and the punishment. But out of all the horrible, careless things my mother had done in our past, she hadn’t committed the evil that she’d paid the highest price for.
I had.
I rose from the table, and Warwick stopped talking abruptly, looking up at me in surprise.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” I muttered the lame excuse as I raced out of the breakfast room.
I managed to make it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the toilet.
Baby killer.
Oh, God. What had I done? What had I done?
You need to get a handle on this, Lucy whispered.
Mom—I ruined Mom’s life. I sobbed over the toilet bowl.
You and I both know your Mom’s life was ruined way before Frankie. You can’t claim that.
Lucy, she went to prison for a crime she didn’t commit—a crime I committed.
And you’ve been trying to make up for it ever since, Lucy pointed out. I looked up at the mirror above the sink, and Lucy nodded.
You quit drama so you could study. You didn’t go out with friends, didn’t go to any parties or dates on the weekends. Remember? I wanted to go party, but you never let us.
I nodded. Lucy was right. I’d tried to be a good girl after that.
And you’ve been a good girl ever since, Maisey.You became a lifeguard, Maisey. Remember all those kids you pulled out of the community pool? Those lives you saved have to account for something...
I was trying to save Frankie. I know it was twisted, but I kept thinking each time I rescued someone that I was rescuing Frankie, bringing him back. Over and over again.
And then you did nursing...think of all the lives you’ve saved with your work.
I turned on the faucet and splashed some water onto my face.
And all that running... Lucy said, although there was a little grumble in her voice. You nearly killed us both with your training.
I needed to run. It was the only way I could get that image of Frankie out of my mind, his little body floating in the pool.
I get it, but seriously—the Marathon des Sables? You don’t think running across the Sahara with a backpack on was a form of penance?
Running was good for both of us, Lucy.
You can’t keep running forever, Maisey.
I lifted my gaze back to the mirror, water dripping off the end of my nose and chin. I know. Tears glimmered in my eyes. I just don’t know if I’m ready.
You’re ready. You need to know the truth, Lucy said, her voice warm and encou
raging. Otherwise, Truth Seeker will keep tormenting you, and we don’t want that.
“But what if I don’t like the truth?” I whispered the words to my reflection. Lucy sighed.
I think you’re ready to face it, kiddo.
I shook my head. “No. That’s easy for you to say. You make friends so easily. Everyone likes you. But me—I’m the baby killer. Can you imagine how Rich would react if he found out? Or Pedro? Mom?” I shook my head in horror.
Damn it. Lucy slapped the mirror, and I flinched. I’m not going to sit by and watch you torture yourself, Maisey. This has gone on too long. Deal with it.
A discreet knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Are you—are you okay in there, Maisey? Mr. Taylor-Cox mentioned you didn’t look well. Do you need anything?”
My eyes widened as I stared at Lucy in the mirror. “Uh, no, I’m fine,” Lucy called back, then she put her finger to her lips.
You need to stop talking to yourself, she warned. People will start to think you’re crazy.
I pursed my lips as I glared at her in the mirror. Takes one to know one. I patted my face dry. Come on, let’s go check on Sarah.
Sarah
“I need to talk to you.”
Recoiling at the harsh edge to my sister’s voice, I check on Elliot. Thankfully he’s still asleep. I hold a finger to my lips and shake my head, but Maisey isn’t paying any attention to me. She’s staring at Elliot’s dresser, her eyebrows raised so high they disappear into her bangs.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Shh...please keep your voice down. I just got him to sleep.”
Maisey stalks to the dresser and examines the bottles scattered across its top, selecting each one in turn and studying its label. “Valium? Zoloft? You don’t need these, Sarah. And you certainly shouldn’t be taking them while you’re nursing.”
Wearied, I sink into the rocker, using a hand to block the sunshine pouring in Elliot’s windows. I’d forgotten to lower the blinds before putting him down for his nap. “Relax. I only got them today.”
“What I don’t understand is why.” My sister puts back the Zoloft and kneels in front of me, gripping the arms of my chair. “I’ve been around you for almost a week now, and you’re not anxious or depressed. You’re a typical overwhelmed, exhausted new mom. And if you’re a little jumpy from time to time, you have your reasons, damn it.”
At a loss for words, I lay my hand on top of my sister’s. Instead of pulling away, she turns her own hand over and holds mine tightly. In that moment, she is my baby sister again, my biggest fan, the girl who followed me everywhere. The sister who would never let anyone hurt me if she could help it. “It’s Warwick, isn’t it? He’s the one who thinks you need this stuff.”
I open my mouth to defend him, but find I can’t. It was obvious my husband was unnerved when he dragged me to the doctor that morning. He was so spooked when I started screaming in terror during our lovemaking that, for the first time since I’d met him, he’d lost his erection. But was he afraid for me, or for his own reputation? That’s the question I’m not eager to learn the answer to.
“What’s going on with him? I can tell something’s not right. It seems like he’s trying to control you, and these drugs are a part of that plan.” Maisey’s eyes beseech me to tell her the truth, but how can I explain the hold Warwick has over me, the arrangement we’ve made? She’ll never see me the same way again. She’ll never be able to understand.
What if she’s repulsed?
I couldn’t handle that.
“Sarah.” She reaches for my shoulder, and gives me a little shake. “You have to flush those pills down the toilet. Do you hear me? If you take them, you’ll be a zombie. Sarah?”
“I can’t.” I keep picturing how Warwick looked that morning, as fear and disgust contorted his handsome features into something hideous. I’ve seen that expression on too many men’s faces not to know what it means. My husband is nearing his breaking point, and sooner or later—probably sooner—he’s going to hurt me. Really hurt me, not just a bit of rough sex play. “He forced me to take the pills this morning, and he told me he’s going to do the same thing every day. He’s decided to be the ‘manager of my mental health,’ as he calls it.”
Maisey clenches her jaw so tight I can hear her teeth grinding together. “That’s bullshit. And it’s abuse. I’m going to straighten him out right now. I’m sick to death of watching him treat you like shit. This has to end. You can’t live like this another day.”
The idea of her confronting my husband makes me panicky, and I grab her by the wrist before she can leave. “No, don’t do that. You’ll only make him angry.” Warwick has managed to remain polite, if cold, to my family, but if my sister challenged him, I doubt he’d be able to keep his temper under control.
She pulls her arm free and before I can catch her she’s reached the door.
“Stop. You’re going to make things worse. Maisey, please listen to me.”
My sister waits, wearing that stubborn expression I became very familiar with when she was little. “What?”
Reaching into the pocket of my dress, I withdraw a crumpled tissue and hand it to her. She looks doubtful, but unfolds it to find the slightly mashed pills I hid under my tongue until my husband wasn’t paying attention.
“Oh, thank God. I’m so glad you didn’t take these.” Maisey tucks the Kleenex into her own pocket. “But if you’re not taking them, why have you been acting so spacey this morning?”
“I have to, don’t I? Otherwise, he’ll know.”
She shakes her head. “You have to leave him, Sarah. I’ve seen this before. He’s not going to change. He wants to control you, and your situation is only going to get worse the longer you stay.”
“I can’t.” I gesture at Elliot. “I can’t leave without my son, and Warwick would never let him go. I’m trapped, just like Mother was.”
“That’s bullshit. They’d never give Warwick custody over you. And if you need me, I’d be glad to testify about what a narcissistic, controlling douchebag he is.”
I smile in spite of myself. She’s so cute when she’s fierce. No wonder Caleb is always ruffling her hair. “Unfortunately, the courts like nothing better than to drag a woman’s reputation through the mud, and once the judge hears about my past, that’ll be it. Game over. I’ll be forever branded as an unfit mother. I’ll be lucky to see Elliot again, let alone raise him.” The thought makes me clench my fists so hard my nails carve deep grooves in my skin. Maisey pats my shoulder in an awkward attempt to comfort me. We’re so bad at this.
“I’m sure that’s not true. There’s nothing Warwick could tell the judge that would convince anyone that he’s the better parent.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t tell Warwick about...”
“Frankie? No, of course not.” Studying my sister’s earnest face, I steel myself for the worst. Here goes nothing. “I never told you how I met my husband.”
“I assumed it was at a polo match at the country club,” Maisey says, sticking her tongue out.
“Very funny. I honestly wish it had been, but before I met Warwick I wasn’t exactly the country-club type, to put it mildly. Everything you see—” I wave my arms, encompassing the luxurious nursery, which was overflowing with every possible convenience, toy and whimsical decoration. “It’s his.”
“It’s yours, too. As his wife, you’re entitled to at least half. At least.”
Ah, darling Maisey. You’re so naive. “Not if you sign a prenup. Eleanor Taylor-Cox is no fool. Warwick had hardly finished proposing before her lawyers descended en masse. You don’t accumulate this kind of wealth by trusting outsiders.”
My sister twists her fingers. “There has to be something we can do. But I still don’t understand what yo
ur past has to do with this. We may not have been rich, but our family is nothing to be ashamed of.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “At least, it wasn’t before Peter came along.”
“That’s not it. Our status, or lack thereof, isn’t the problem. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now.”
Our scrappy little neighborhood had been filled with friends, people who’d vowed to have each other’s backs no matter what. Before Peter came along, we weren’t that unusual, even when Dad died. Other kids we knew were dealing with druggie parents, deadbeat dads and shrieking mothers. Alice, who couldn’t seem to get out of bed and pull herself together, didn’t merit so much as a double take.
“Do you remember anything about the night I left?” I figure it’s as good a place to start as any.
Maisey lowers her eyes and gives her fingers a particularly vicious twist. “Not much.”
I reach for her hand to stop her from breaking it, awkwardness be damned. “Do you even know why I left when I did?”
“I assumed it was because of Alice.” She shrugs. “She always denied it, though.”
Of course she did. I expected nothing less of her. “You’re right. It was Alice. But it was also Peter, and the memory of everything he’d done to us on her watch.”
It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. At least, that’s what Mr. Burch had called it.
Mr. Burch taught art, the only class I never skipped.
I was forever trying to impress him. One day he arrived late, something he’d never done before. His face was flushed and whatever he had to say was fighting to get out, like he’d burst before we took our seats.
Once we had, he asked if we were familiar with Bernard’s Department Store. And of course we were—besides being the nicest, most expensive store in our area, they had the best window displays. The kind of displays that people stare at for hours, the kind no artist can resist.
“Well, I have some exciting news. Mr. Bernard himself met with me today, and you’ll never guess—he wants to hire one of you to be his new window designer.”